The Winds of War

anywhere. It was just a gesture of dismissal and a convincing one.

Amid much wining and dining, the conference went on for two more days. One night Churchill took the floor in the Augusta wardroom after dinner, and delivered a rolling, rich, apocalyptic word picture of how the war would go. Blockade, ever-growing air bombardment, and subversion would in time weaken the grip of Nazi claws on Europe. Russia and England would “close a ring” and slowly, inexorably tighten it. If the United States became a full-fledged ally, it would all go much faster, of course. No big invasion or long land campaign would be needed in the west. Landings of a few armored columns in the occupied countries would bring mass uprisings. Hitler’s black empire would suddenly collapse in rubble, blood, and flame. Franklin Roosevelt listened with bright-eyed smiling attention, saying nothing, and applauding with the rest.

On the last day of the conference, just before lunch, Admiral King sent for Pug. He found the admiral in undershirt and trousers in his cabin, drying face and ears with a towel. “Task Unit 26 point 3 point 1, consisting of two destroyers, the Mayrant and the Rhind, has been formed,” King said without a greeting. “It will escort the Prince of Wales to Iceland. You will embark on the Prince of Wales as liaison officer, disembark in Iceland, and return with our task unit.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“You’ll have no written orders. But we’re not in the kind of spot we were in last time. In confidence, we’ll soon be convoying all ships to Iceland. Maybe by next week. Hell our own marines are occupying the place now. The President’s even sending a young officer along as a naval aide to Churchill while he tours our Iceland base. Ensign Franklin D. Roosevelt, Junior.” King spoke the name with an expressionless face.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, Henry, how are you at languages?”

“It’s a long time since I tried a new one, Admiral.”

“Well, a military supply mission will go to the Soviet Union in September. If Russia’s still in the war by then, that is. Mr. Hopkins has brought up your name. He appears impressed, and the President too, by your expertise in landing craft and so forth. Now your service record has been checked, and it seems you claim a ‘poor to fair’ knowledge of Russian. Hey? How is that? That’s very unusual.”

“Admiral, I put that down when I entered the Academy in 1911. It was true then. I don’t remember ten words now.” Henry explained the circumstances that had given him Russian-speaking chums in his Sonoma County boyhood.

“I see. Well, it’s there on the record. Upon returning from Iceland you will be detached from War Plans to prepare yourself, with an intensive refresher course in Russian, for a possible trip to the Soviet Union on special detached duty. You’ll have interpreters. But with even a smattering, your intelligence value will be greater.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

King put on his uniform jacket, stared at Victor Henry, and for the first time that Henry could recall, favored him with a smile. “On the record, incidentally I see you used to be a fair gunnery officer, too.”

“My one hope is to get back to that.”

“Have you heard that extension of the draft passed the House of Representatives an hour ago?”

“It did? Thank God.”

“By one vote.”

“What? One vote, sir?”

“One vote.”

“Whew! That’s not going to encourage the British, Admiral.”

“No, nor the President, but it’s how the American people feel right now. It may be suicidal, but there it is. Our job is to keep going anyway. Incidentally, Henry, I’ll soon be needing an operations officer on my staff. After your Russian errand, if it comes off, that’s an assignment you may get.”

Victor Henry kept his face rigid. “It would be an honor, Admiral.”

“I thought you might like it. I believe you’ll measure up,” King said, with an awkward trace of warmth.

Compared to a battleship command, it was a crushing prospect. Desperation forced Pug to say, “President Roosevelt may have other ideas. I just never know.”

“I mentioned this to the President. He said it sounded like the perfect spot for you.”

A verse from Psalms knifed into Pug’s mind: “Put not your trust in princes,”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

Within the hour, as Victor Henry was packing, a summons came from the President. The interview this time took but a minute or two. Roosevelt appeared fatigued and preoccupied, making quick pencilled notes on one document after another at the baize-covered table. Harry Hopkins was in the room, and beside him a tall handsome ensign, with a strong resemblance to the Assistant Secretary who in 1917 had bounded around the destroyer Davey.

The President introduced Franklin D. Roosevelt, Junior, to Pug, saying “You gentlemen will be travelling together. You should know each other.” As the ensign shook hands, the President gave Captain Henry a poignant man-to-man glance, as much as to say — “Keep an eye on him, and talk to him.”

This human touch half dissolved Victor Henry’s hard knot of mistrust for the President. Perhaps Roosevelt had turned off King with a pleasantry and still meant to give him the battle ship. The President’s bland manner in dismissing him was, as always, unfathomable.

To brass band anthems and booming gun salutes, in a brisk breeze smelling of green hills and gunpowder, the Prince of Wales left Argentia Bay. The great conference was over.

In the wardroom of the Prince of Wales, Victor Henry could sense the subtle gloom hanging over the ship. What the conference had accomplished to increase help for England remained undisclosed; and in itself this clearly struck the battleship’s officers as a bad sign. These men, veterans of two combat years, of air attacks and gun fights, had a subdued dismal air, despite the grandeur of their ship and the stuffy luxury of their wardroom. The predicament of England seemed soaked in their bones. They could not believe that Winston Churchill had risked the best ship in their strained navy, and his own life, only to return empty-handed. That wasn’t Winnie’s style. But vague hope, rather than real confidence, was the note in their conversation. Sitting in the lounge over a glass of port after dinner, Pug felt quite out of things, despite their politeness to him. It struck him that his presence embarrassed them. He went to bed early. Next day he toured the Prince of Wales from flying bridge to engine rooms, noting contrasts with American ships, above all the slovenly, overburdened, tense crew, so different from the scrubbed happy-go-lucky Augusta sailors.

Major-General Tillet came up to him after dinner that evening, and laid a lean hand on his shoulder. “Like to have a look at the submarine sighting chart, Henry? The Prime Minister thought you might. Quite a reception committee gathering out there.”

Pug had seen the forbidding old military historian here and there at the conference. Two nights ago, at a wardroom party for the American visitors, some junior British officers had started what they called a “rag,” marching in dressed in kilts or colored towels, bizarre wigs, and not much else; skirling bagpipes, setting off firecrackers, and goose-stepping over chairs and tables. After a while Major-General Tillet had stood up unsmiling — Pug thought, to put a stop to the horseplay — and had broken into a long, wild jig on a table, as the bagpipers marched around him and the whole mess applauded. Now he was as stiff as ever.

Red secrecy warnings blazed on the steel door that Tillet opened. Dressed in a one-piece garment like a mechanic’s coveralls, stooped and heavy-eyed, Churchill pondered a map of the Russian front all across one bulkhead. Opposite hung a chart of the Atlantic. Young officers worked over dispatches at a table in the middle of the room, in air thick with tobacco smoke.

“There,” said the Prime Minister to Tillet and Pug Henry, gesturing at the map of the Soviet Union with his cigar, “there is an awful unfolding picture.”

The crimson line of the front east of Smolensk showed two fresh bulges toward Moscow. Churchill coughed, and glanced at Henry. “Your President warned Stalin. I warned him even more explicitly, basing myself on very exact intelligence. Surely no government ever had less excuse to be surprised. In an evil hour, the heroic, unfortunate Russian people were led by a pack of outwitted bungling scoundrels.” The Prime Minister turned and walked to the other bulkhead, with the tottering step Victor Henry had observed in his London office. At Argentia